Coffee to go
by Fayth3
Summary: Molly finds Sherlock approaching her more often, but is it just coffee he's after?
1. Chapter 1

Molly was so engrossed in the delicious tale in front of her that the sudden knocking at her door caused her to jump.

Her disgruntled feline fell off his comfortable perch on her knee and gave her a mutinous look.

She stared down at him and shrugged her shoulders, feeling only marginally ridiculous that she was justifying herself to her cat. Besides it wasn't like it was her fault. It was very rare for her to have visitors at all, let alone ones at this hour.

She got up off her sofa, sliding a bookmark to keep her place and ventured towards the front door.

The knocking came again, only this time more insistent.

She hesitated at her front door and leaned up to stare through the peephole.

Her eyes widened and she yanked the bolt back, unchained and unlocked her door, and gaped as Sherlock Holmes pushed past her and stormed into her apartment.

"Hi," she said as he threw himself on her recently vacated sofa.

"Yes, yes." He waved the social niceties away and slouched further down, looking every inch the petulant schoolboy.

Since she had helped him fake his death and had housed him for several months she had lost her hero-worship of the man. She could now hold tolerably intelligent conversations with him without regressing to a blushing schoolgirl. If she did have the odd fantasy where he came here to rip her clothes off... well, she was able to hide it a lot better now that she knew he liked to wear ratty dressing gowns and bit his nails when he yelled at Jeremy Kyle.

Still he said nothing and she closed the door and headed to the kitchen. She filled the kettle up and put it on, knowing that he would appreciate a hot coffee even if he was sulking.

She heard him huff a few times and went back to her living room.

He had his eyes closed and palms pressed together which meant that he was deep in thought.

"Difficult case?" she asked quietly, not entirely sure why he was there.

"Obviously," he intoned.

They were silent for a long minute during which Molly decided that it was time to get that coffee. As she stood up, Sherlock exploded.

"It doesn't make sense!"

She sat back down. "No?"

Sherlock surged to his feet and began pacing. "The legacy was handed down from father to oldest son throughout twelve generations, each one getting progressively smaller. But now a daughter has stepped out of the woodwork claiming the rights as the eldest. No son so the money would go to her. Problem? No one knew of the daughter but her DNA matches that of the father. Definitely his child but the father is sterile. It is impossible for the girl to be his daughter yet all the genetic markers are there. How is this possible?"

Molly waited until he gave her a glare. She jumped. "Oh, you're asking me?"

"Mrs Hudson took my skull," he bit out, "and John is… busy."

Molly bit her lip. "With Mary?"

"Yes."

It seemed that the relationship between the good doctor and the sweet paediatrician was getting serious. That would be enough to annoy Sherlock at the best of times but if he was having a particularly perplexing case then it would be even worse.

Molly sighed and walked into the kitchen.

"Molly?"

"I'm thinking!"

Molly stirred his coffee, deep in thought. "Did he donate sperm at any point?"

"No."

"Is there a brother or sister, could she be his niece?"

"No." Sherlock paced. "Already checked. Not his niece or cousin or sister, the genetic markers are too close."

Molly paused. "How close?"

"Very close."

"Impossibly close?"

"Wh-"

She heard him stop in his tracks.

"No, no, no. Yes. No. But what if- yes, of course! The mother!"

"Hmm?" She reached up for a flask she kept for work and poured his coffee into it.

He was waving his arms madly. "Don't you see? So simple. The mother always wanted a daughter but knew that any inheritance would go to her sons. So when the boy is born she ensures that he is sterile and uses her degree in genetics to manipulate further samples to procure a daughter. It takes some time so she can't pass her off as a daughter and has to make do with being a grandmother. It explains the two year sojourn to Italy and the dwindling of the inheritance. Wonderful!"

Molly frowned. "Genetically engineered children? It's a bit farfetched, isn't it Sherlock?"

"Not engineered, manipulated. The genes were already there she just had to tweak them. We've all heard of designer children. It is the only explanation that fits all of the evidence, Molly. As I have often said once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains-"

"However improbable, must be the truth," Molly finished with a smile. She offered him the flask. "Hot coffee, go be brilliant."

"I shall." He swept his scarf over his neck, gave her a devastating grin and raced out, shutting the door behind him.

Molly shook her head once, crawled back on her sofa and picked up her book.

"Now, Mr Darcy where were we?"


	2. Chapter 2

Eric was sweet and not just a little cute. He had this self-deprecating thing down so well that Molly disregarded her usual caution and invited him back to her flat on the third date.

They sat on the sofa talking about the film they had just seen.

"You know, I never would have pegged you for a fantasy fan." Eric said. "You seem so grounded."

Molly smiled. "Oh I can't resist Tolkien, _the Hobbit_ was always my favourite book as a child."

"Mine was _Just William_, I always identified with naughty scruffy little boys." He looked down at his jeans and shirt. "Although I can clean up well with a little incentive."

Molly grinned and opened her mouth to reply when she heard the thundering of feet outside her apartment.

She winced as the door opened and Sherlock stormed in.

"How the hell did you..." she sighed, there really was no point, "Sherlock, I'm on a date."

"He won't bother me." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively at Eric and started to pace across her rug.

Molly gave Eric an embarrassed smile. "Sorry about this," she whispered.

"Uh who is-"

"Sherlock Holmes, Detective."

Eric looked a little more impressed. "The Sherlock Holmes, the one who offed himself but it was fake?"

"Yes."

"Wow." He shifted his feet slightly. "It's nice to meet you."

Sherlock waved his hand in the air and muttered to himself.

Molly got up. "Ignore him, he's on a case and his usual sounding board is probably on a date. Like me!" she said pointedly.

Eric nodded with a strained smile. "Right... what should we do?"

"Just be quiet while he figures it out. It shouldn't take long. He is quite brilliant." She said with a sudden rush of affection for the detective. "Do you want a drink while we wait?"

"Sure."

Molly switched the kettle on and leaned against the door, watching as her date eyed Sherlock dubiously.

Sherlock tugged at his hair and paced frantically. He suddenly whirled on Molly.

"If you wanted to get rid of a body, Molly, what would you do?"

Molly shrugged. "Take it to the morgue. With my equipment I could easily dispose of a corpse without anyone the wiser."

Sherlock grinned at her. "And if you were not a pathologist?"

Molly chewed her lower lip as she poured three coffees. "I'd find someone I trust to help me move the body. The usual places for dumping bodies are rivers and tunnels. But there is a large shipping company on the East side docks. Some of those containers have been there for years. It would be easy to slip a body inside, cover it with some sort of acid or solution to make reconstruction harder and simply leave it there."

"Someone she trusted." Sherlock fluttered his fingers in the air like he was discarding ideas and searching for new ones. He stopped dead suddenly and clapped his hands together.

"Of course!"

Molly smiled, glad that she could be useful, even a little bit.

Sherlock turned on his heels and started to dash out of the door.

"Wait. Here," Molly held out his drink in a plastic travelling mug. He grabbed it gratefully and was gone before she knew it.

Molly shook her head in fond bemusement and turned back to her date.

Eric gaped at her as she handed him his drink. "You think about committing crimes a lot?"

Molly shrugged at him. "If you spend enough time around police officers and the dead you do tend to think of these things."

"Right," he said uneasily.

She sat by him and snuggled closer.

"So-"

The front door opened again and Sherlock stuck his head inside. "By the way, your date is a habitual gambler and is heavily in debt. He borrowed money from his most recent girlfriend and has yet to pay her back, quite a hefty sum. He's running from loan sharks and is quite possibly trying to extort money from you. Honestly, Molly, look at his hands."

His head disappeared and her front door closed.

Eric opened and closed his mouth.

Molly sighed. "You want that coffee to go?"


	3. Chapter 3

a/n- So this chapter is devoted to a sherlolly author who made me smile last week with her story. I don;t think she reads my stuff but it was a hard week and she made it better. I think it's fairly obvious when you read it :)

* * *

3-

"So to recap, an autopsy is not an everyday occurrence but chiefly used during cases of sudden death, where a doctor is not able to write a death certificate, or when death is believed to result from an unnatural cause."

"Like murder?"

Molly looked over at the bright eyed student. "Yes, but also any case where there might have been diagnostic errors or the family has requested one. Those are the more likely reasons to do an autopsy. When a loved one dies, it's natural to want someone to blame, and so many families ask for an autopsy to be done. But statistically only between 8 and 24% of all autopsies find a mistake in treatment."

She glanced around at the sea of enthralled faces and bit back a smile. They all seemed so very young.

St. Barts was a teaching hospital and Mike had asked if she minded taking a class through basic morgue procedures and autopsy techniques. These students were all dealing with it quite well, although the boy in the orange striped top looked a little green when she had pulled out one of the corpses.

"So the first thing we do is an external examination, this usually tells us more than the actual autopsy itself. Once here we photograph it, noting the kind of clothes and their position on the body before they are removed. Next, any evidence such as residue, hairs, flakes of paint or other material is collected from the external surfaces of the body. All these help in identifying where the body was killed and what they were up to before they died. Even the smallest piece of evidence can be crucial. That's why we often use ultraviolet light to search body surfaces for any evidence not easily visible to the naked eye. Then we take samples of hair, nails and blood to send off for tests."

"How long does that usually take?" one girl with long brown hair and glasses had been busy taking notes all class and seemed very interested in the minutia of pathology.

Molly shrugged. "Depends on the case, depends on the backlog. Usually in minor cases, where we don't believe there is anything suspect, it can take up to a week. Murder cases, we try to have answers within 48 hours. Of course certain cases take priority." She gave a rueful smile at that. Not just certain cases. After Sherlock had stormed in and made three lab techs cry, they had agreed to give his cases priority, on the understanding that he never set foot in the lab again.

"So then, once the external evidence is collected, the body is removed from the bag, undressed, and any wounds are examined. The body is then cleaned, weighed, and measured in preparation for the internal examination." She gestured to the table where Mr. Ryan lay. "We make general observations about ethnicity, sex, age, hair colour and length, eye colour and other distinguishing features, like birthmarks, old scar tissue, moles, and tattoos. Here at Barts we have a voice activated recorder." She pointed up at the box above the corpse. "This allows us to have our hands free and still record our observations. Now-"

She stopped talking as the door to the lab swung open and her heart sank as the bane of her existence waltzed in.

"Molly, I need to see a body."

"Not now," she said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock didn't even spare her a glance. He reached for her desk, rifling through papers. "Yes, time is of the essence. I need to prove that it wasn't his wife, but his son, who killed him."

"He's dead, can't it wait an hour?"

"Nope, Lestrade is merrily dancing down the wrong path as we speak. Aha!" He held up a sheaf of papers. "Excellent. You've started the preliminary. White Caucasian male, forty-six, brown hair, brown eyes, over weight. Tattoo of eagle on lower back- bad choice I'd say. Inoculation scar on upper arm, broken fingers..." he started to mutter under his breath.

Molly sighed, looking at her fascinated students. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Bit busy here."

For the first time Sherlock looked up and registered that there were ten teenagers in the room with him. He frowned. "Can't they go away?"

"No. This is a teaching hospital, Sherlock, I'm teaching."

"You're a pathologist, not a babysitter." He wrinkled his nose at them. "Besides only five of them have any interest in pursuing a career in medicine and none are particularly interested in working in the morgue. It's a waste of your time and theirs."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Even if they aren't going to work in the morgue, it's good to know what actually goes on in here." She sighed, realising that she wasn't going to get rid of him that easy. "Fine, the one you want is in drawer nine. I haven't done the autopsy yet so you'll have to make do with the external examination until I can get to it. Look all you like, just keep it down."

"Fine." He gave her a mutinous glare and stalked over to the drawer, somehow managing to pout and look angry at the same time.

Molly shook her head. "Sorry about that. Where were we?"

"V-voice activated recorder," one girl said, her eyes still on the detective.

"Right," Molly took a moment to gather her thoughts. "Also here we have specially altered autopsy tables that have a plastic block under the midsection of the corpse. This is also called a 'body brick'. Anyone have any idea why?"

The faces around her looked blank.

Sherlock scoffed.

Molly ignored him and continued. "The block is under the midsection in order to raise the torso, causing the arms and neck to fall backward while stretching and pushing the chest upward to make it easier to cut open. This gives us maximum exposure to the trunk." She gestured with her scalpel to the body in front of her.

"Molly, were there any threads stuck to the wound?"

Molly gritted her teeth. "The autopsy chart is on the end of the table marked with the subject's name, Sherlock."

"Asking you is easier."

"And more annoying," Molly rubbed her hand over her face in frustration. "Tiny fibres about half an inch long. I've sent them to the lab for analysis. Also several types of animal hair, hay and other grasses. All summarised in the report. Which I know you can read." She finished.

"Reading is boring, activity is the thing. See here," he flicked a glance up. "You."

The girl's eyes widened. "Me?"

"You appeared to be the only one listening to the good doctor. Come here."

The young girl shot Molly a worried look. Molly just shrugged.

She edged towards the table where the victim lay.

"Ye-s?"

"What do you see?"

The girl bit her lip and glanced at the body. "Um. Dead male, white...um Caucasian. That's the right way of saying it, isn't it?"

Sherlock nodded and that seemed to give her confidence.

"Late forties. Brown hair." She swallowed hard and leaned over, propping open one eye with her fingers. She shuddered and stepped back. "Brown eyes. Fat- uh... over weight. You said he has a tattoo on his lower back but I can't see that right now. Measles scar, bruise on shoulder, cuts... lacerations on forearm, damaged wrist and broken fingers?" she nibbled on her lip. "That's it."

"Which forearm?"

"Hmm?"

Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently against the table. "Which forearm is injured?"

"The left."

"Yet we know the victim is right handed." Sherlock said. "Look at the indents on his fingers- used to holding a pen there. So why would a right handed man fend off his attacker with his left?"

"His attacker was coming from the left?"

"No."

"Oh," she deflated slightly.

"Look at the body again. You've already noted it."

The girl and now the rest of the class peered intently at the body.

"He couldn't." They swung around to peer at one of the taller boys. Molly had dismissed him as an athlete, doing the class for extra credit.

"His shoulder has been pulled out of its socket. Happened to me when I was playing rugby one time. I couldn't pass or do anything for days after they popped it back in. But the bruise looked just like that."

"Well observed," Sherlock said and motioned for the class to move closer. They all did and Molly grinned to herself, stepping into the office and switching the kettle on.

She could still hear Sherlock talking to his captive, and captivated, audience.

"So this man was attacked but had his shoulder dislocated so he couldn't fight off his attacker."

"D-does that mean there were two attackers?" the girl who had spoken first asked. She was a pretty Indian girl with very dark hair and a cute smile. "One to hold him back and one to attack the front."

"No." Sherlock pointed to the body. "If someone was holding him back them there would be pressure points on the both shoulder. It would be impossible to hold back a man of this size without leverage using just one arm."

"The wrist!" she said excitedly. "The bruises look like a circle. Was he tied up, tried to pull away and dislocated his shoulder."

Sherlock gave her a grin. "Oh yes. The burns on his wrist are from rope and the broken fingers where he was trying desperately to pull his hand out of the trap, thus dislocating his shoulder. But the angle of the wounds tell us so much more. Anyone?"

They all looked closer.

"The cuts are all on the upper forearm," a ginger haired boy said, "like the person who was attacking was taller?"

"Or he was on the ground." Added another. "Didn't Doctor Hooper say he'd got animal hair and hay on his trousers?"

"Excellent. You are not aware yet but the burns are old which means he was tied up for a while. Tied up and sitting down. Presumably on the floor. His attacker was above him."

"Are these knife wounds?"

"Yes."

The class went silent again and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Statistically women are much less likely to premeditate murder and, when they do, favour methods such as poison. Men are stronger physically and this man was a good ten stone heavier than his wife. There is no way she would have been able to subdue him, keep him captive and exert enough force to cut through to bone." He turned the arm over, showing the class the white bone showing through the flesh.

The ginger boy turned green and hurried out of the room.

Sherlock sighed. "There goes another accountant."

"So the son did it?"

Sherlock's attention was captured by the Indian girl again.

"What is your name?" he asked curiously.

"Adi," she replied, "but my friends called me Mou."

"Well, 'Adi who is also Mou'," Sherlock said. "This man is Ronald Gilbert who owns a rather nice farm which does a roaring trade in illegal dog fighting. Not that Mr Gilbert was aware of this since it was his son's misdemeanour. Mr Gilbert was planning on selling the farm, not wanting to leave it to the feckless hands of his offspring and use the money to take his wife on a cruise. The son got wind of this and decided to off the old man thinking that the farm would fall to him as the next male. However, before he could implement his plan, he discovered that his father had left the farm to his wife. He abducted his father trying to force him to change the will. When Mr Gilbert refused, his son attacked him in a fit of rage, killing him and attempting to pin the blame on his mother. Easy."

"You can tell all that from some wounds and a bit of hay?" Adi said.

"Just as I can tell you do not wish to be a pathologist but a writer."

Her eyes widened. "Wha-"

"Excellent memory recall, especially for conversations which did not include you. Biro on your shirt and the clear indentations on your right hand where you hold a pen, added to the unmistakable outline of a notepad in your pocket. Your attention to minutia, the squint from the glare of a computer screen and the placement of your fingers, slightly bent and at right angles with your thumb, calluses on your lower palm from resting across the keyboard shows a hand well used to computers.

But your ability to follow the evidence to the logical conclusion is the real clincher. A good imagination, time at a keyboard and attention to detail. You, my dear, wish to be a writer."

"I do," Adi breathed out. "My dad wants me to be a doctor."

"He's wrong. As a doctor you would fade into the ranks of the mediocre but I deduce that you have the makings of a stellar author." Sherlock said firmly. "Ah, Molly!"

Molly held out a plastic cup complete with lid. "Now you've solved your crime and finished monopolizing my class, can I carry on?"

"Of course. Far be it from me to interfere with your job." He grabbed the cup and headed to the door. He paused and half turned. "I shall be watching your career with interest, Adi who is also Mou."

"O-kay," she stuttered as the door closed behind him.

She sagged against the table.

Molly came up behind her and patted her on the shoulder. "Don't worry, he affects us all like that."


	4. Chapter 4

4—

Molly knew that Sherlock was saying something behind her. She could hear him and had heard nothing but the constant drone of his voice since he had let himself into her flat an hour ago.

Sometimes she regretted giving him a key but it seemed so much easier than screeching every time he broke in. Once upon a time it would have been her dream to come home and have Sherlock Holmes lying on her sofa, waiting for her, even if it was just to talk to now that John had moved out with his girlfriend.

But right now she just wanted him to shut up and go away. She gnawed on her nail as she stared out the window at the dark.

"Molly?" he huffed. "Molly, are you listening to me?"

"No," she muttered, scanning the street. "Not even a little bit."

She heard a grunt as he hauled himself off the sofa and then his footsteps padding across the room. He stood so close she could feel his body heat against her back.

"What are you looking for?" his deep voice rumbled in her ear.

"Toby."

"Wha-" he stopped and she could almost see him looking around the flat, making deductions and formulating ideas.

"How long has he been missing?"

"Five days." Molly noticed what she was doing to her nail and grimaced; she hadn't bit her nails since high school. It really wasn't sanitary considering her job. She folded her arms across her chest instead. "I put his food out as normal on Wednesday but when I got back it was still there."

Sherlock sighed behind her. "Molly-"

"I know what you're going to say." She snapped. "'Stop obsessing, it's only a pet.' But he's more than that." Molly rounded on him. "He was there to comfort me when I needed it and he bit Jim... Moriarty and he... he..." she sniffed and turned back to the window. She couldn't tell him that she'd bought Toby when she was feeling at her lowest about Sherlock. That the sweet little cat had been her only companion for months and had helped her remember all the good things about life. He'd also sat by her side every time Sherlock had left the building during his 'death', keeping her sane. And now he was missing and the last thing she needed was Sherlock telling her that he was just a pet and that she should get over it.

"He's probably out there scared, lost and alone. Maybe some horrible children have hurt him or... maybe he's been hit by a car and is dying on the side of the road." Tears stared to trail down her cheeks. "And I don't know where he is."

She bit her lip as her voice caught and she started to cry properly.

Sherlock shifted behind her. "Have you-" he cleared his throat. "Have you put up posters?"

She gave a mini sob, catching her breath. "There are hundreds of missing cat or dog posters, Sherlock, no one even looks at them anymore."

"Really?"

Molly ignored him, straining her eyes to see out into the darkened streets, trying not to imagine her poor cat being taunted or tortured by some teenagers.

"I've got to go."

Molly hadn't heard his phone go off so he was probably uncomfortable being in the same room with a crying woman and since she wasn't going to be listening to him or making him coffee, he'd probably decided that he might as well be at home.

Well fine. He could go. Maybe she should start doing posters.

"Okay."

She let her gaze focus on the glass, showing the reflection of the man behind her. His hand was hovering at her shoulder level before his fist clenched and he retreated.

She watched as he grabbed his coat, twirling it around his shoulders like a cape before closing the door behind him.

She didn't hear from him for two days.

Molly poked at the corpse in front of her with her scalpel, sliding the lungs aside, and frowning at the discolouration on the various organs. It looked almost like someone had dyed their insides. But why would anyone want to do that? And how?

She edged closer, cocking her head at the green spleen and orange kidneys.

Colour coded organs.

She was about to call Mike and ask for his opinion when she heard the outer door go.

She glanced up, expecting to see an intern or maybe even Mike himself, but it was Sherlock. And he was carrying-

"Toby!" Molly jumped away from the table and wrenched off her gloves, rushing over to take the feline from the detective.

"You found him!" She cradled the ball of fluff to her chest and kissed his orange head. Molly looked over the purring cat, checking him for injury.

"He's fine," Sherlock said. "A little shaken, perhaps but nothing a few days rest won't cure."

He reached over and scratched the cat's head. Molly noted the scratches on the back of his hand and the state of his coat.

"What happened to you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Nothing important."

"Pfft."

Molly hadn't even noticed John Watson standing behind Sherlock and she gave him a grin, which faded she saw the bruises and cuts on John.

"Seriously, what happened?"

"Cats." John said.

"Cats?"

"And dogs."

Molly looked up at Sherlock and then back at John. "No, I'm going to need more than that."

"You said it yourself, Molly. There are hundreds of fliers on missing cats and dogs. More than usual. No one has noticed because people are very good at ignoring the obvious. That many disappearances of domesticated pets have to be linked."

"I said maybe there was a new Chinese place opening up but apparently," John said with a nod to Sherlock, "that's racist and erroneous."

"It's a smuggling ring. Well," Sherlock smirked, "_was_ a smuggling ring. They stole domesticated animals, knowing they would be healthier and more docile than strays, and put them in a pet store which was a front to a drug smuggling ring. The animals were being advertised as already housetrained. When 'clients' bought the pet, they also left with half a kilo of heroin to distribute at their leisure. It was obvious."

"And the scratches?" Molly said, hugging Toby tighter.

"Some of the merchandise didn't take kindly to being freed."

"You saved Toby."

"And took down a drug smuggling ring," Sherlock added.

But it was all Molly could do not to jump up and kiss him. He may say that he broke the ring but he wouldn't have even found it if he hadn't been looking for Toby. She beamed at him.

Her hero.

"Well, then I have something for you."

He raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Molly bit her lip and leaned in closer.

Sherlock stiffened slightly but leaned in, expectant and uneasy at the same time.

Molly just whispered. "Go and have a look inside the body. I'll make you guys a coffee."

Sherlock stepped back, looking oddly disappointed, and nodded.

Molly headed into the kitchenette, stroking her beloved cat. She paused by the door and waited.

Three. Two. One.

"His liver is purple! Oh, this is brilliant!"

She grinned and switched on the kettle.


	5. Chapter 5

5-

Double shifts at the morgue were not Molly's favourite way of spending the day, let alone back to back.

There had been a tragic explosion near Hyde Park and the corpses had to be sent to three different morgues. Molly had been working flat out for over 36 hours to try to uncover the identities of the body pieces.

The adults were bad enough, but when they bought in bones of a much smaller nature, it was all Molly could do to get through the day without bursting into tears.

It had been hard and horrific and all she wanted to do was curl up on her sofa with her cat and eat Lindt truffles until she passed out.

Times like this she wished there was someone there and that she didn't have to be alone. What she wouldn't give to be able to snuggle up with another body- a live one- to hug them and have them tell her that everything was going to be alright.

Or even just to have the presence of another human. She'd worked hard to get a flat all to herself but now it felt so empty. Maybe she should start looking for a roommate again.

Maybe if she did she'd find a soul mate, after all, it had worked for Sherlock.

She smiled slightly to herself as she slid her key into the lock thinking of a glass of wine and some period drama.

But, as she opened the door to her flat, her stomach dropped and the idea of a calm evening went flying out of her head.

Her flat was empty.

Her large puffy chair, keyboard, television, radio, even her potted plants were all gone.

She clenched her keys tightly in her hand, heart around her feet as she tried to take it in.

They'd taken everything; the only thing remaining was her cream carpet with furniture indentations and claw marks.

Claw marks. Toby.

"Toby!" Molly stepped into her empty flat, her hand reaching into her bag for her scalpel- just in case the burglars were still there.

Nothing.

"Toby!" she called again. Still nothing.

Molly grabbed her phone and hit speed dial.

"New Scotland Yard, Detect-"

"Greg, it's me, Molly." She interrupted.

The weariness was gone from his voice immediately. "Hey Molls, what's up?"

"I've had a break in. All my stuff is gone. Everything, Greg. They've even taken my cat!"

"Bloody hell," he swore and she could hear rustling. "Alright, Molls. I'm on my way. Don't go any further inside, okay?"

"Okay," she said, swallowing back the mild hysteria. She didn't need this. Not today. Not any day but especially not today. She gripped the phone like it was a lifeline, stepping back into the hallway.

Thankfully she didn't have long to wait until Greg Lestrade was by her side. He bounded up the stairs and wrapped her in a hug.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"No," Molly's voice wavered. "I was helping with the Hyde Park bombing otherwise I would have been home hours ago and maybe-" she swiped at her face trying not to cry.

"Shh," he rubbed her back. "C'mon, let's go have a look."

He pushed open the door and blinked. "Bloody hell. You weren't kidding."

He stepped further inside, eyes narrowed and intent as they raked over her empty bookshelves. "No way this was a one man job. You've been gone all day?"

"Since yesterday morning." She sniffed.

He walked into the kitchen and opened drawers and cupboards. "They've cleaned you out. Completely. There's nothing here at all. No scraps of paper, no cans of beans, nothing. This is more than a random burglary."

Molly clutched her bag, following him into the bathroom and bedroom.

They'd taken every item she owned. Her clothes were gone, her toiletries, her photographs and trinkets. Even the tiny shells she'd picked up from the beach with her father.

Somehow that hit her so hard she thought she was going to be sick. It had been the last time they had gone out together before he got too sick to leave the home.

Who would do that?

"Okay, I'm going to call forensics, but this wasn't a quick job, Molly. Do you have any idea of anyone who'd hold a grudge?" He reached for his radio.

Molly started to shake her head and then paused as a thought struck her. "Uh, Toby went missing a few weeks ago and Sherlock found him. He said he took down an international drug smuggling ring. D-do you think they've taken my things as revenge?"

"It's possible," Lestrade frowned. "Listen I'll get onto Sherlock, maybe he has some idea." He grabbed his mobile and dialled a number from heart. It rang twice.

"Sherlock. Yeah. I know you hate calls but I couldn't put this in a text. Listen, I've got Molly Hooper here- yeah. No. She's all right. How did you-? Right. Anyway there's been a break-in and her- no, we've got to wait for forensics. I can't just- fine." He hung up. "God, he's irritating."

Molly gave a short laugh. "What did he say?"

"He asked us to come over to Baker Street. Said he knew something about it."

Molly sniffed again. "When you said 'asked'?"

"All right, ordered." Lestrade smiled. "Knowing him he's already solved it and you'll get your stuff back in no time."

Molly allowed him to make her feel marginally better. "Yeah, probably. Still won't feel the same though."

"Come on," he put one arm around her shoulders, "let's go and see what his royal arse has for us."

The ride to Baker Street hadn't been in total silence. Lestrade knew that Molly was feeling, not only brittle from her long day, but also vulnerable from the violation of someone stealing her things and having been in her home. He tried to keep things upbeat, letting her know that Sherlock was going to sort it and she'd have her things back in no time, and he'd even help fit her a new lock and show her some self defence moves.

Molly just smiled at him, grateful that she had friends like Greg, even as she silently wished he'd just shut up so she could start worrying about her cat.

What would those drug dealers do to her poor Toby in retaliation for Sherlock shutting down their ring?

She gnawed on her lower lip as they pulled up to Baker Street and Lestrade opened her door.

They knocked and Mrs Hudson opened it with a smile.

"Hello, Detective, Molly."

"Mrs Hudson," Lestrade greeted. "He's expecting us."

"Yes, thought he might be." The landlady reached over to hug Molly. "Heard you've been having a bit of day, dear. Now I've made some snacks, but don't get used to it. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

Molly frowned. "Wha-"

Before she could finish her thought she heard the door to the upstairs flat open and loud, familiar mewing.

"Toby?" Molly scampered up the stairs and met her ginger tabby halfway down. She scooped him up in her arms and kissed his fur. "Oh, my sweet little baby, you're okay!"

"Of course."

Molly looked up to see Sherlock's dark figure in the doorway, the light filtering behind him to make him look like some dark avenging angel. She blinked and he was back to his usual self, motioning for them to follow him simply by turning his back.

She clutched Toby tighter and made her way up the stairs only to stop dead in a doorway for the second time that day.

Molly opened her mouth. "That's my chair."

The large leather recliner was set in the centre of the room, opposite the poufy chair that Sherlock himself favoured. John's chair was nowhere to be seen.

"Yes." Sherlock threw himself on the couch and flicked his dressing gown over his legs.

Molly moved into the flat. By the side of his skull on the mantelpiece was her graduation photograph. Her laptop was on his coffee table. Underneath the large picture of the human skull was an anatomy sketch of the human musculature that she'd done in medical school.

She stepped further into the room.

Her books were interspersed with his, her trinkets adorned his shelves, mixed in with pipes and trophies and there, lying on the mantelpiece, were her shells.

She turned to Sherlock. "What's going on?"

"John moved out." Sherlock reached behind him to grab his violin.

"O-kay?" Molly waited.

He sighed. "You'll find all of your things in your room. I even unpacked your clothes. Honestly Molly, you should wear those items more often. They'd suit you far more than the things you wear to work."

Molly gritted her teeth. "Sherlock, why are my things here?"

"Because it would be inconvenient for you to go back over that side of London every day. Do keep up, Molly."

She rolled her eyes and counted to twenty.

Lestrade stood by her quietly. "You want to clue me in here?"

"Apparently John has moved out and now Sherlock has kidnapped my things." Molly raised an eyebrow.

He sighed again, drawing the bow across the strings. "It was the most expeditious use of resources. John was moving out to get married, you were unhappy, your rent was too high, Mrs Hudson has hidden my skull and it is much more convenient for you to live here."

Molly lit on the most important piece of information. "Your skull is on the mantelpiece."

Sherlock paused, looked over at the skull and shrugged. "The logic stands."

"So, without asking, you moved all of my things here? Including my cat?"

"You would have agreed eventually, I just sped things along."

Molly rubbed her face tiredly.

Lestrade touched her shoulder. "Technically it's theft, although it wouldn't stand in court. I could make a case for him being an enormous git. Do you want to press charges?"

Molly looked at the shells on the bookcase, framed between a picture of Sherlock and John at a crime scene and some sort of medal. They looked at home there.

Cosy almost.

It would be nice not to have to go home alone, to have someone there when she got in.

She could see Sherlock watching her out of the corner of his eyes although to the casual viewer it would seem he wasn't paying her the slightest bit of attention.

But he was. The way he was holding his body spoke to all kinds of tension, something about this meant more to him that he was saying. It was almost as if he was waiting for her to reject him, to yell at him. She knew how many people he had gone through as roommates before John came along and she knew how lonely those years away from his friend had been. And now John was gone again and Sherlock didn't want to be alone, so he had chosen someone to join him, someone he trusted and liked enough to have them near him.

He had chosen her.

When you thought of Sherlock's personality it really was a twisted compliment.

Molly shook her head, giving in. She smiled at Lestrade and hugged Toby. "No. I want a coffee."

Sherlock relaxed fully, leaning back against the sofa with his bow in his hands. He grinned at her. "Me too, black, two sugars."


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks to all for helping me reach the 100 review mark. That is BOSS!

A/N- I decided to go on the story stats for this and found out that there is One person in Jamaica, Two in Guam, Two in Hong Kong, Four in Moldova and Seven in Serbia who are reading this story. From my little bedroom in a terraced estate in Midlands, England to the far reaches of the _world_. Seriously this blew my mind, thinking of some girl/guy in Jamaica sitting at a computer reading my fanfiction (whoever you are- hey!) Take a step back peoples and just marvel at the Interwebs.

Marvel.

Okay done?

Now on with the fic.

* * *

6

Molly stumbled into the flat and shut the door as quietly as she was able to. There were no lights on in 221b so either Sherlock was already in bed- unlikely- or he was out scaring the denizens of London- probable. Still she didn't want to wake Mrs. Hudson who still had the ears of a... very not-deaf thing.

Molly swayed on her bright red heels and braced herself against the door so she could finally unstrap her feet from the torturous objects.

Why Mary had insisted that she wear them for the Hen party was anyone's guess. Molly had argued that at least one of the party needed to remain sober and upright enough to make sure they all got home but Mary had just pointed to the shoes and told her to shut up and lace up.

She had been sort of right; it had been fun to go out with the girls, drinking and dancing and flirting and drinking. And then drinking some more. She'd finally managed to pour Mary into a taxi around 4am and called John to let him know to wait for his fiancée. He'd seemed amused at her inability to say his name and asked if she was going to make it home safe. He'd asked her to text him to let him know.

Text him!

Molly fumbled in her pocket for her phone and took two tries to open her inbox. She must have had slightly more to drink than she'd thought, she wasn't usually this slow. She shook her head and headed into the kitchen, typing with one hand as she searched for a clean glass.

_Home safe. Thx- MH_

Seconds later there was a merry tone.

_Good. Mary too. Glad you girls had fun. Night- John._

She smiled at the text. John was so sweet.

Why couldn't she have someone sweet?

Molly felt her lips turn into a pout as she sipped at the water.

It took seconds before she realised what she was doing. No. She wasn't going to get to the drunk and melancholy part of the evening. Not alone. She was going to bed.

She headed to the bathroom to wipe off her make-up and change into tank top and shorts for bed before coming back to the kitchen to grab her drink.

She downed the water quickly and poured herself another, grabbing a bottle of aspirin from the shelf. She wanted them close at hand in case she woke up with a hangover tomorrow. She didn't think she was that far gone, but you could never tell.

She walked into her bedroom and put the glass and tablets down on the bedside table.

Thankfully she had been living here long enough now to be able to move around her room in the dark without stubbing her foot on everything.

Molly sat on the edge of her bed, yanking the covers around her before turning over.

And screaming.

She sat bolt upright and her hand smashed into the table lamp, before flicking it on.

Dark curls burrowed further into her pillow.

"Sherlock?" she squeaked. "What the hell?"

"Turn the light off," was his muffled reply.

Without thinking she obeyed. Then rolled her eyes at herself in the dark.

"Am I in the wrong room?"

"No."

"So... I'm in the right room?"

"Yes."

Molly nodded to herself. Well, that part was sorted.

"This is my room."

"Hmm."

Molly paused. "Ok, why are you in my room?"

"Sleeping."

Molly gaped. Her alcohol soaked mind could only grasp two things. This was her bed and Sherlock was in her bed. He had to be aware of the latter but perhaps he needed reminding of the former.

"Sherlock, this is my bed."

"Yes."

"Is there something wrong with your bed?"

"No."

She gritted her teeth. "Then why are you in _my _bed?"

"s'comfy," he yawned. "Shh." His voice was dozy and any other time she would have been delighted to hear the less than crisp tones. Right now she was annoyed and confused, slightly drunk, tired and ratty.

But mainly annoyed.

"Where am I supposed to sleep?"

He heaved a heavy sigh and rolled over. The timbre of his voice deeper from sleep. "The bed is big enough for the two of us, Molly. If I promise not to molest you as soon as you close your eyes, will you shut up and go to sleep?"

She opened and closed her mouth, a myriad of retorts coming and going. Finally she huffed and flopped onto her back.

"Fine. But we will be talking about invasion of privacy and personal space in the morning when I'm sober and can argue with you properly."

"I look forward to it." He mocked.

"You better not snore or I'm kicking you out."

"Be quiet woman, some of us are trying to sleep."

Molly had the sudden urge to hit him with her pillow but managed to refrain.

Just.

She tried to regulate her breathing, tried to ignore the fact that Sherlock Holmes was in her bed. She was sleeping with Sherlock Holmes.

Only in the most technical of senses but still. A year ago this would have been a dream come true.

Now she just wondered if she could get away with murder. She probably could, she was very smart. She yawned and snuggled under her covers more.

Actually it was quite nice to have another body in the bed. A live one. Not that she slept with any of the dead ones. She grinned to herself.

Maybe she was more than slightly drunk.

She closed her eyes and felt herself start to drift.

"Molly?"

"Hmm?"

"Why do you smell of coffee?"

"Had a Blushin' Russian."

She felt him move behind her. "A what?"

"Blushin' Russian," she said tiredly. "It's a cocktail."

"Oh." He lay back down. "What's in it?"

"Coffee Liqueur, Strawberries, Vanilla Ice Cream and Vodka. S'nice," she muttered.

"You'll have to make one for me," Sherlock said.

"Mm hmm. Coffee in a go cup. To go." She smiled even as she drifted off, just managing to catch his last words before they flitted away into the darkness.

"No. I'm not going anywhere, Molly."


	7. Chapter 7

7- This is for... dude, you know who you are. Ask and ye shall recieve.

"Stupid, arrogant son of a bitch," Molly muttered as she walked through the door of St. Barts.

There would be no prize for guessing who deserved that epithet. Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

He who called at stupid a.m and told her it was important that she come to Barts. He who said it was an emergency. He who 'forgot' to mention there was a thunderstorm brewing. He who had taken her umbrella and left her with nothing.

Molly had been caught in the torrential downpour not ten minutes from Baker Street and was soaked to the skin. Even her underwear was damp thanks to London's amazing ability to go from pea-soup fog to Noah's ark flood in three seconds flat. She shivered under her trench coat, cursing her flatmate for being the inconsiderate jerk he was.

She trudged down to the morgue, her trainers squelching against the tiled floor leaving pools of water behind her.

Molly took a deep breath before opening the door to her private sanctuary, knowing full well that she was going to need every inch of patience to deal with whatever was behind the door.

She pushed it open reluctantly and stepped inside, feeling a little better when she saw that Sherlock wasn't alone.

John Watson was not only a good friend but also had more tact and people skills than Sherlock. He also had the added benefit of being quite attractive himself. When you were called into work at 3 a.m you had to take your perks where you could.

John looked up as the door opened and his greeting smile faded when he took note of her condition.

"Sheesh, Molly, did you swim here?"

She gave Sherlock a death glare. "No, my flatmate is an arse who stole my umbrella."

"Ahh," John winced in sympathy. "I used to have one of those. My advice? Run."

"Molly, could you wheel out Mr. Ackbar?"

Molly took a deep breath. "'_Hey, Molly. Thanks for coming out to help me._'"

He looked up. "What?"

"Nothing," she sighed. "I think I have a change of clothes here. Give me a minute."

She headed into the locker room but could still hear the two men.

"That was poorly done, Sherlock. Molly came out in the rain to help. You could at least have said hello."

"I assumed it was a given."

"It always is with you. Why did you need her here, anyway? The poor girl's soaked. Why did you steal her umbrella?"

"I used mine to impale a Russian."

"What?"

"Shut up, John."

Molly couldn't help but shake her head at the two of them. They were like a married couple sometimes. But her smile fell as she opened her locker to find it empty.

No change of clothes. She closed her eyes as she remembered taking them home to wash. Well, at least she could put her coat over the heater and that would be dry by the time she left.

She pulled off her summer coat, wincing as the white blouse stuck to her back, and her hair dripped down her face.

She avoided the mirror knowing full well that 'drowned rat' wasn't a good look for anyone.

Sherlock and John were still muttering to each other as she returned.

"Who did you want me to wheel out?"

"Mr Ackbar." Sherlock looked up from his microscope. His eyes widened slightly. "You haven't changed."

John grinned. "You can see why he's the detective, can't you?"

"I forgot, last time I did a floater, his intestines leaked over my clothes. I was going to wash them and bring them in but haven't had chance."

John bit his lip. "You can't stay in wet clothes, you'll get sick."

Molly bit her lip back on the retort. John was a sweetheart, it wasn't his fault she was wet and grumpy.

"I don't have anything else. My usual clothes had to be washed."

If she did, she'd be wearing it.

Her trousers were wet through and sticking to her knees. She was tired and uncomfortable and the chilled air wasn't helping.

"That was poorly timed, Molly."

Neither was Sherlock.

She glared at him. "Well, I didn't realise that I'd be called in at 3 a.m and that my flat mate would steal my umbrella. Also you're welcome for dragging myself out of bed to help you."

He looked a little abashed.

"Yes, well, your assistance is appreciated."

She was slightly mollified by that. But it didn't help the fact that she was freezing.

"I'll see if I can rustle up some scrubs from upstairs," John offered.

Molly gave him a grateful smile. "Thanks, John."

He left the room, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone.

She wheeled out the body for him, rubbing her arms as he stared down at the corpse.

"What are you looking for?"

"I believe Anderson made several mistakes when cataloguing injuries. I know you'd work them out on the autopsy but I believe time is of the essence her."

"Hmm." Molly swept her hair back off her face, grimacing at the soaked strands.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Hypothermia is a real issue when wet and exposed to cold. I should hate you to get sick. There are very few proficient pathologists who are willing to work with me, even fewer of whom I would work with."

That made her perk up a bit. "Is that your way of saying you care if I get sick?"

Sherlock just cleared his throat again. "Your being ill would be... unfortunate. Can't you just wear your lab coat?"

"My lab coat comes to my knees."

"Yes."

"And it's white."

"So?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "Even my underwear is wet, Sherlock. Wet against white. I know you don't care but I don't particularly want to flash John."

"Of course."

Molly wondered if it was just the light or if there really was a faint blush riding up under Sherlock's jaw.

He gave her a look from the corner of his eye as she shivered again.

"Oh for- here!" He pulled the sleeves of his Belstaff and yanked it off. "Go put your clothes on the heater and wear this until John can return with dry clothing."

Molly's jaw dropped.

"You want me to take my clothes off and put your coat on?"

"It's the most logical course of action."

Yes there was definitely a deep red flush creeping over his face.

And no doubt over hers.

Wear his coat. With nothing on underneath.

Be naked under his coat.

It was like one of her old fantasies. Her fingers unwittingly curled around the thick wool.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm waiting, Molly. You will be of no use to me unless you are warm."

She bit her lip, her brain racing at all the ways this was a stupid idea but, in the end, the need to be warm outweighed any potential embarrassment or reoccurrence of feelings and she headed back to the locker room.

She peeled off her wet blouse, trousers and socks and hung them over the radiator, hesitating only momentarily before removing her bra and doing the same. She drew the line at removing her pants and used a clean tea towel to dry herself off a little. Then she simply stood and stared at the Belstaff.

Sherlock's signature coat.

She took a deep breath and slid it on, wondering if it was going to be uncomfortable.

But it wasn't. The wool was soft against her skin, wrapping around her as easily as cashmere.

It was far too big for her but she used the belt to cinch it around her waist and snuggled into the warm fabric that smelled like London and cigarettes and Sherlock.

She popped the collar and draped her damp hair over it, glad to get the dripping mass off her neck.

Molly hesitated before leaving the locker room. It was one thing to wrap herself in his coat, quite another for him to see her in it, and know that she was naked underneath. The very thought made her hyper aware of the coat against her naked body, the material scraping across her breasts.

She gnawed on her lip.

"Molly?"

"Coming." She gathered all her bravery and walked back in.

Sherlock was leaning over the microscope again, twiddling the dials. "I thought so, the ink on the back of his hand wasn't a club stamp. They use a particular kind of ink."

"So this is different?"

"Yes, this is far superior. Indian ink of the highest quality. The kind you only find at exclusive stationeries. The pigmentation is-" he looked up and the words died in his mouth.

Molly shifted uncomfortably. She wondered what Sherlock was staring at so intensely; surely she didn't look that ridiculous.

His gaze drifted down from her curling mass of soaked hair, past the collar, the cinched in waist, and her bare legs down to her feet.

He swallowed and she watched as his Adam's apple bobbed.

"No shoes?" His voice was somewhat hoarse.

"Trainers and socks are wet." She shrugged, looking down at her bare feet with the red nail polish on her toes.

"I see."

There was an awkward silence before Sherlock went back to his microscope. Molly stood there, her feet cold on the morgue tiles, as she watched him.

"So, um ... pigmentation of ink?"

"Yes."

Molly stepped closer to him. "Will it help catch the murderer?"

"I should think so. It looks like the ink was laced with a narcotic which when stamped into the skin would cause the drug to enter into his system. A slow death."

"Oh. Well, if you give me the sample, I'll send it away for official analysis and get the evidence verified."

Sherlock scoffed. "It would be so much easier if people just took my word for it."

"I know," Molly smiled, "but if we don't get verification, they can dismiss the evidence out of court. Still, I don't know if I would have looked for poison in the ink." She frowned a little, wondering at all of the suspicious deaths she had registered before meeting Sherlock. How many of them were murders that she hadn't caught? How many of the suicides were really cover ups? How many murderers had gone free because she hadn't realised?

"You can't blame yourself, Molly." She looked up to find Sherlock staring at her. "Many murders slip through the cracks, but only the once. If they kill again they make mistakes and then you catch them. You are thorough in your work and have an attention to detail that is meticulous. You are also stubborn and tenacious and will not let things slide. You are an excellent pathologist, Molly. It is one of the reasons you came to my attention in the first place."

Molly smiled as she remembered the first time she'd met him.

Molly had been working as an apprentice to Dr. Reynolds; a cantankerous old man who treated her as an indentured servant. He'd left her to do the write up of an autopsy and gone to the pub.

She was getting fed up of having to do the dirty work while Dr Reynolds slipped off early and ignored her questions and suggestions. She wasn't able to do any real pathology. She was almost reduced to a secretary. And was starting to think that maybe she'd do better at a smaller morgue, at least to start with.

But then Molly had found a discrepancy in his work and had pulled out the body to check for herself. She took an extra swab and had taken it to the lab for analysis.

When she returned there were two men in the lab. One was the Detective Inspector Lestrade, who she had met before, and the other was a tall man with a deep voice, who she hadn't. They were both intent on the report that Dr. Reynolds had left by the side of her computer.

She'd entered quietly, not even rating a greeting from either of the men as they went over the report.

"See," Lestrade was saying, "it's there, clear as day."

"It's wrong."

"Dr Reynolds is one of the foremost pathologists in the country, Sherlock."

The tall man, Sherlock, grunted. "Doesn't mean he can't miss something and I'm telling you he's wrong."

"He's not."

"He is. Adam Grupta did not die of a heart attack, he was murdered."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "No he wasn't."

"A-actually I think he was," Molly spoke up.

The two men looked at her.

The tall man had incredible bone structure and the most piercing blue eyes she had ever seen. "Who are you?"

"Dr. Molly Hooper, I'm the assistant." She opened her mouth to continue but was stopped as he railroaded over her.

"And you've found something, something different to what was on the report which you were typing up."

"Yes," she frowned, "how did you know?"

"Test tube in your hand. You've been to the lab, but why? If it was a full autopsy you would have had the cart and packages to take down, so only the one to test then. You took it yourself, something you didn't want anyone else to see, something you were unsure of. The report was left near the keyboard, the mouse is on the right, Dr. Reynolds is left handed so someone else was typing up his reports. Added to that you've corrected his spelling and grammar. The workstation was shut down and pass coded- incidentally your password is ridiculous, no one should keep the hospital assigned password. You left midway through the report- you obviously found something of interest and took it to the lab but you didn't tell anyone is case you were wrong. You're not wrong, Dr Molly Hooper, what have you found?"

Molly gaped at him. "Wow. That was amazing."

He smirked. "I know."

"And annoying," Lestrade said.

"No really, that was amazing and you are right. I thought that the black powder under his nails was gunpowder residue- which it was, but Dr Reynolds said that it was from only one type of gun. I distinctly remember there being two colours of powder on his clothing. I made mention of it to Dr Reynolds but I, uh don't think he heard me."

"You mean he ignored you?"

Molly coloured slightly. "There were two types. He was shot with one gun leaving one type of residue and then it was made to look like he'd shot himself but with another gun. Another make, another gunpowder composition."

"There," Sherlock said triumphantly. "Excellent. We find the second gun and we find our killer and I know just where to look. Come on, Lestrade."

The Detective Inspector sighed and followed Sherlock as he swept out of the room.

Molly grinned to herself. Well, that was exciting, maybe she'd actually like working at St. Bartholomew's after all.

The door burst open and Sherlock's head appeared. "By the way the name's Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. Don't plan on going anywhere, Dr. Hooper. I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of each other."

And they had.

Dr Reynolds had been called in for overlooking evidence and had opted for early retirement leaving Molly under the more affable Mike Stamford.

"Seems like forever ago," she said with a soft smile, thinking of all that had happened between then and now.

"Yes," he agreed. His gaze flickered from his microscope to Molly and then back. He cleared his throat and his shoulders tensed. "Molly, I-" he began.

Before he could say anything else, the door opened and John walked in with blue scrubs slung over his arms.

"Here you go, Molly. There was a very sympathetic nurse in A and E. I think you're about the same size." He glanced at her wrapped in Sherlock's coat and did a double-take. His gaze travelled down to her bare legs, his brain putting two and two together. His eyes widened and then alternated between her and Sherlock. "Or are you comfortable as you are?"

Molly flushed and grabbed the scrubs. "Thank you, John. I'll just go and- yeah."

She hurried into the back room again, reluctantly pulling Sherlock's coat off and yanking the scrubs on. John had even managed to find some paper shoes which she slipped over her cold feet.

When she returned, however, Sherlock was nowhere in sight and John was on his phone.

She motioned to the empty chair. "He's solved it already?"

John shrugged. "Don't think so. He told me to stay here, he'll be back in a minute but you know Sherlock. He's probably half way across London fighting with a bear."

"A bear?" her lips twitched even as John grinned.

"It could happen."

She nodded, biting her lip. "He was saying about the pigmentation of the ink being superior to normal club stamps. I'll pull up any information I have on that, maybe it will help."

"Right. Are you... warmer now?" There was something in the tone of his voice that had Molly look askance at him.

She slid in front of her computer and booted it up. "Thanks for the scrubs."

"Because you looked pretty cosy in his coat."

"I was shivering, he offered it."

"Right," John's voice was disbelieving. "Sherlock noticed you were uncomfortable and did something about it out of the goodness of his heart."

"He did. He's not a machine, you know," Molly defended.

"He pushed me in a fountain once and I got flu. He didn't offer me his precious coat."

She eyed his mischievous expression and sighed. "What are you getting at, John?"

"I think he likes you."

"I saved his life, I hope he does."

"No I mean _likes_ you, likes you."

"What are you twelve?" Molly laughed. "He's not like that."

"He spent two days looking for your cat."

"Because I was moping and he couldn't get any work done."

"He let you wear his coat."

Insisted, but Molly wasn't going to tell him that. "I was shivering and he couldn't focus."

John nodded looking pleased with himself. "He moved you in with him."

"Because you moved out."

"He asked Mycroft, _Mycroft_, to move your stuff."

Molly spun around on her chair. "What?"

John folded his arms. "Uh huh."

Molly just gaped. She was well aware of exactly how much Sherlock hated asking his brother for anything. Well aware that he'd rather have his hair dyed pink and be taken to see Sesame Street live surrounded by sugared up five year olds than admit he needed help.

"You didn't wonder how he moved all your stuff in a day?"

Molly shook her head. "It's Sherlock."

She just assumed that if anyone could do it then it would be him.

"He's changing, Molly. I think it's because of you."

"No." Molly shook her head, her throat suddenly feeling tight.

"Molly-"

"No!" She cried. "Don't do that. Just don't. I can... I've always... You know that I love him. I do. I always will but I've come to terms with the fact that he doesn't feel the same way. I can be around him knowing that he will never look at me like that because it's just how he is. What I can't deal with is hope, John. Hope destroys you. Makes you wish and long and fantasize. If I know it's not going to change I can be happy and move on. I _need_ to move on, knowing that there is no hope. Please don't-"

"Shh, sorry, Molly." John hurried over, wiping the tears as they slid down her face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"I know." Molly swiped at her face. "I didn't mean to snap. It's just- you're wrong."

"I'm not," he replied equally as softly. "It may take time but I think you might need to deal with the fact that our resident Consulting Detective has feelings for you. He acts like a teenager so it might take him a few months but he will make a move sooner or later, Molly. Just- be prepared."

Molly wanted to argue more, wanted him to take the words back so she could withdraw back behind the wall and shove Sherlock into the box labelled "friend only". She wanted to curse those little butterflies that erupted as hope got a hold of John's idea and ran with it.

He was wrong. He had to be wrong, because if he wasn't...

The door opened and Sherlock walked in, his lithe figure missing the sweep of the coat. He was carrying a small cardboard box.

"I was looking at ink pigmentations, just running an analysis," Molly said as he put the box down on the table.

"Good, I was hoping you'd get started."

He reached into the box and pulled out a Styrofoam cup. He handed it to her.

The heat seared her fingers. "What's this?"

"Coffee, white, one sugar." He gave her a look. "Unless you've changed your coffee order in the last ten minutes."

"No. No. This is fine." She looked down at the perfectly coloured beverage. "Thank you."

Sherlock nodded. "John, your tea is in the box. Bring my coffee, we've got some work to do."

"It's right there, Sherlock!" John sighed but followed after the Detective, grabbing the box the man bypassed on the way to his microscope. He stopped by Molly's desk. "I guess it'll be sooner then."

Molly stared down at her coffee and the butterflies swarmed.


	8. Chapter 8

8

Molly looked up as Sherlock stumbled into the room.

He had a bad case of bed head and there was a pillow crease across his cheek, but the overwhelming air of exhaustion had disappeared during his nine hour sleep.

He'd come home after solving his latest case and face-planted on his bed. Molly had been worried until John had assured her that post-case coma was a usual problem after a 'nine'.

Still she had checked on him several times to make sure that he was still breathing, which had the added benefit of the picture of the consulting detective drooling on his pillow that was currently hidden in her phone for future blackmailing prospects.

He scratched at the back of his neck and yawned widely, slumping onto the middle of the sofa.

Toby glared balefully up at him from his perch on Molly's knee, obviously not liking the man too close. It seemed that Toby still harboured a little resentment from being kidnapped and taken to 221b in a box.

Sherlock still harboured resentment from being used as a scratching post. He glared back at the cat.

Molly hid her grin. "Feel better?"

"Hmm," Sherlock nodded, yawning again. "What are you watching?"

"_Cake Boss,"_ Molly shrugged. "It's a reality show about a bakery in America. I like it because they show how they put together some amazing cakes. It's fun."

"Hmm," he said again, unconvinced.

"Better than Jeremy Kyle or Jerry Springer," she pointed out, having been blindsided by his love of trash TV. She'd never get the image out of her head of Sherlock yelling at the TV, disputing the lie detector test and a child's paternity. She thought, at one point, that he'd visit the studio just to tell them how wrong they all were.

"How was work?"

Molly shot him a look. _How was work?_ It was probably the most domestic thing she had ever heard come out of his mouth. It threw her brain for a few seconds before she could reply.

"Good, boring. One heart attack, two RTA's. Nothing really interesting. I did a few lab runs and finished off some autopsy reports. Got home early for once. Which you already knew, Mr. Detective."

He gave her a half smile and shrugged. "I may have deduced it."

"Are you hungry? Now you've finished your case your body probably needs food. I can make you-"

He grabbed her wrist before she could get up. "Finish off your show first. I do believe the base of the cake is about to crack."

And not three seconds later a large crack appeared over the white icing as the cake began to subside.

Molly looked at him in bemusement. "How did you know that?"

"The tiers were not properly stacked and the supports were less than adequate. They needed at least another two dowels on the bottom tier."

She just stared at him.

"I had to go undercover in a wedding cake show once. I listened to a rather tedious lecture on the need of proper support and the benefit of using wooden struts as opposed to plastic ones."

She blinked. "You deleted the solar system but kept cake construction."

"The solar system rarely features in murder, yet you'd be surprised how many people have been killed with wooden cake supports."

"How many?"

"At least one," he grinned, "not that they got away with it."

Molly laughed and shook her head. "I wonder what John would call that one?"

"No doubt he'd come up with some banal pun to entice his readers."

Molly felt his fingertips run over her skin and realised that he was still holding onto her wrist. His eyes followed hers down to their hands. He trailed his fingers up to her pulse point and lingered.

She knew he felt the jump as her heart thumped slightly. It always did around him, no matter how much she tried to tell herself that he was a friend, _just_ a friend.

"The Great Cake caper?" she suggested, her voice only trembling slightly.

"Icing on the Stake?"

"A Study in Sugar?"

He huffed in amusement. "Very good. I'm sure that people would be clamouring over themselves to read it."

"They are reading about you, about your cases. They find it fascinating. I know I do."

"You do." Sherlock stroked her wrist. "Why?"

Molly thought for a moment. "It's like... wearing glasses and realising that you've had the wrong prescription for years. Then one day someone comes along and points it out and offers you theirs and for a few brief moments the world is in such detail, such vibrant colour and you can't take it in but they point out several things and you can see it so clearly. The world is beautiful and magical and then they take it away. You do that. You see so much detail and focus and when you point it out, it's magical- all the pieces of the world fit together and we can see it. But it doesn't last because we're not as good as you. We don't see it." She looked up and her gaze locked on his. Molly blushed. She must have sounded like a complete idiot. "Or... or something like that. I didn't- don't mean. I-"

"Molly?" Sherlock interrupted her stammer.

"Yes?"

"Shut up." He leaned over and captured her lips with his own.

Molly's eyes slid shut of their own volition as his warm soft lips caressed hers. His hands abandoned her wrist and reached up, sinking themselves in her hair. He angled her head and pressed harder, his mouth opening against hers, his breath hot against the seam of her lips.

Molly couldn't help but allow him access, the quick sweep of his tongue making her toes curl and lower spine tingle.

The soft mewing sound, she knew, came from her and she reached up, her fingers digging into the towelling of his dressing gown. Their movement dislodged the cat who hissed his displeasure and jumped off her knee.

But neither of them noticed.

Sherlock's hand slipped down and he yanked her onto his lap, his arms encircling her waist.

Molly finally gave in and reached up entwining her fingers in his curls.

God, his hair was so soft. How could it be that soft?

She pulled her mouth away, her nails scratching his scalp.

Sherlock purred- there was no other word for it.

"You like that?"

He raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?"

Molly bit her lip, feeling oddly coy. "I think that if I pulled your hair in just the right way, Sherlock Holmes, I could have you on your knees begging."

He groaned and let his head fall forward onto her shoulder. "Molly!"

She giggled at the sheer desperation in his tone, running her fingers through his hair again.

He shuddered. "You have an evil streak. I'm not sure whether to be impressed or intimidated. On the whole I think... aroused."

Molly could feel it. She blushed.

The embarrassment gave her a clear head for a brief moment.

"Sherlock?"

"Because its time," he answered her unspoken question. "Because you count and I saw it but never appreciated it until it was all I had left. Because you... _see_ me, Molly Hooper. Clearer than anyone ever has and I want to be with you. I will not be a good 'boyfriend'," he all but spat the word. "I will most defiantly disappoint you at one time or another. I will forget or ignore important dates and inadvertently say things that hurt you. I can only promise that I will try. For you. You will have to teach me and remind me but I can learn. I wasn't ready before, but I am now." His eyes clouded slightly. "If you still-"

She pressed her finger to his lips, heart pounding in her chest. "Of course I do. Always."

He raised an eyebrow and grinned wolfishly at her. "In that case, perhaps we could get back to it. I have been doing extensive research and would like to experience more of this 'necking'. The sensations are intriguing and I'd like to examine them more."

Molly licked her lips. "Who am I to stand in the way of science?"

In the interests of science she noted the way his lips slanted over hers, kissing her as passionately as she had dreamed. She catalogued the groans and growls emitting from his throat as she raked her nails over his scalp.

She detailed the scent of warm, clean fresh male and the faintest hint of cigarettes and toothpaste.

But under all that, the best thing of all?

Sherlock Holmes tasted like coffee.

**The End**

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Wow, thank you all so much for the amazing reviews, they've really cheered me up and helped with the brain freeze that went on halfway through this fic. To each and every one of you who reviewed, mad props and major thanks- even those that just reviewed "nice". Every one was appreciated. I was hoping to break the 200 mark with the final chapter but we'll see. Now onto the other three Sherlolly fics I have lined up.


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